


Scorched Sand

by Abby_Ebon



Series: All That Glitters [1]
Category: Egyptian Mythology, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Mummy (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revision. Harry went and died when he really wasn't supposed to. Landing in Ancient Egypt after killing a Dark Lord isn't death; but it might as well be. Now he must learn to juggle 'living' Egyptian Gods, Pharaohs, and High Priests...Slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Dark Lord Down, One Manic Priest To Go

_"It is said that the Founders, given their differences, inherently wished for the children and teachers of Hogwarts to succeed them, independent of their deaths._

_To better explain what happened next to future generations, I must briefly explain how things have been done before the writing of this history, and will certainly occur long after._

_Writing our rich history is by some, considered an ailing success, so it is that much of what we know comes from word of mouth and legend and lore of our people. We know it to be true that there are – or were – creatures of immense power, to lesser ability these exist still today though they are rare to sight and harder to find for their hiding of themselves. That we, magical as we are, are not the only ones to have this power, some would say this gift or curse is passed by blood, something put upon us by Beings Of Greater Power._

_We do not know their Names, and if known we must never Write or Speak of these Names aloud for fear of wakening of stirring the attentions of these sleeping God-Powers. Yet it is considered a proven fact by many families of magic that they exist and are quick to offend or grant whims if flattered._

_It is not known how it happened, but the Founders must have known some ancient and arcane means of invoking – or taking - these Names for aid._

_In the East of that Sunrise, after a three-days Eclipse; a great sorrowful song came upon all and the people who had known the Founders wept for knowing that on this day they must continue on the four's great work alone. For the Founders had died with the night. This song of the East was that of the Phoenix, whom the Egyptians call the Bennu, knowing it by its nature in these words within the Egyptian Book of the Dead;_

_"I am the Bennu bird, the Heart-Soul of Ra, the Guide of the Gods to the Duat."._

_That I may write this Name, while dare not write any other Names should be noted for this reason. As every child so must be placed in one of the Four Houses by the Sorting Hat, so must the Bennu seek the best leader and teacher for Hogwarts born within the next Age to follow in the footsteps of the Founders. Its reasoning was asked, and answered while it still had Power, that it had Forgotten its Name and sought it now from the most clever mortals born. Since then, no one has uttered the sought Name._

_This creature, bound now to Hogwarts and the Mortal World, has forgotten its Name and Power, and to keep it bound, everyone who the Bennu seeks gives to it a Name of Lesser Power, do not utter aloud it's True Name, for it will not thank you for the knowing. It is no more then a Beast now, though fragments of its Power still waken from time to time._

_- Hogwarts A History_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Harry," it was Hermione who called to him after a long sleepless night and the Dark Lord pressing their defense endlessly, "I think I found a way."

A familiar old book was tucked under her arm; her eyes were tired and restless, yet still so intent and focused with her brilliant mind fully behind them. The use of his true-name alone drew his attention to his only childhood friend who made a point to deny his first official war-office order and use it. She alone could remind him of who he was, and not have it backlash to sting him like a wasp in the face. He was who they counted upon to put an end to the monster who stirred the War, but he could not think of himself as such and not faultier in his job for worry and wondering if this was the right thing. If he should not go out among his war-wizards and battle-mages and seek out for himself the Dark Lord with his bone-white crown.

Her words, if not his name and the reminder of who he was by spoken prophesy, were a blessing to their forgetful ears. She knew that she brought them fragile hope, now, in a time where they had need of it most. Still, she stood just outside the door, uninvited in and yet still a upstart enough to show that she was waiting for Harry to _join her_.

For all he knew and loved her, she was his friend and for all the knowledge she had he cold not – would not – risk her dying in this war. He could not loose her, another of his dear friends. In the beginning she and Ron had rode with him to the battles, had refused to leave Harry's side, it had been the end of him. Harry didn't bother dismissing himself from the gathered war-generals, he their war-lord and master by their own decree. He left the others without a word.

Let them watch him follow her, a muggle-born mudblood, as much the cause of this War as any.

"It's been sitting here all along, Harry." Hermione murmured softly, the strain of sleepless nights of study plain upon the ear.

"Look at this." Hermione gave him the book with a small shove, the top corner of the page tucked against the next. Harry looked at the words for a long time, senseless and unseeing. What he read gave him focus. Voiceless, his lips formed the Name. His wand, its phoenix feather – _Bennu's feather_ , core the twin to the Dark Lords own, hummed warmly against his forearm like the twine of an instrument plucked.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Harry asked of her, seeking her council now, when in the past it had been flung upon him. She'd gotten wiser about when to use her tongue, but sometimes kept her silence and secrets too well.

"It pains me to say, I do not know…but, Harry we _must_ try. He gains ground and power against us day-by-day, if this continues…it _can not_ continue. We already loose heart and spirit, our souls may well be lost; all that will be left of us will be our bodies to be used as only his toys." Her hand shook as she brushed it through her mane of bushy wild brown curls. They bounced charmingly, framing her youthful face. He forgot, sometimes, that she was as old as he was; they both seemed so much older. War having shaped their lives and aged them cruelly, at least they still survived. Though it did not seem they enjoyed it much.

"Is this, then, the power he knows not?" Harry asked of her, his wand held in his fingers. His hands were smooth and clean, still the calluses there were for weapons. He was as skilled in those as in his magic. Hermione wondered sometimes if she could still best him in practice spar. She hid her smile as she answered.

"There is a chance, yes." Hermione could not deny she saw the steely gleam of triumph that began to bloom in his eerie Death Curse green eyes. It lifted her heart to see it.

"Then I will try." His confidence in her made her breathless, and she dared hope that his faith in her would not prove wrong. He bushed a closed-lip kiss against her forehead, smiling in a way she had no seen since before Ron died. It was brotherly, comforting and proud. Then his words sunk in, finally, and she knew what he intended to do.

"No! Harry, please, you must let someone else try…we can not loose you." She had thought it might be easy to confront him, to get him to change his mind with her sway. Always before he had heard her and more importantly valued and listened to her. Not so simple now.

"You won't, Hermione. Have faith in your own clever mind. I will see this War ended." Harry whispered the words softly, eyes now upon his wand once more. It was as if it were a secret he had dared not believe in before; for all that the others said it among each other by now as a simple truth. It was accepted for fact; though Harry had done only the best he could by them, he had never believed in his heart-of-hearts that he would be the One to end the War and kill the Dark Lord. Not after Ron had fallen.

"You must not risk yourself, Harry. We live for you. It would kill us – _kill me_ – to see…to see you _die_. Please, think! It isn't worth it, its only barbaric scribbling!" She cried out, yelling through the depths of the Underhill. This was the Summer Stronghold, kept by Elves and given to Harry as an alliance-gift. There were protections here that were promised never to fail, and here alone was one of the places that Harry could live without his war-generals fearing for his life. Hermione knew what it might mean, if the Dark Lord learnt that Harry now ventured from the Underhill.

"It's the History of Hogwarts, Hermione. You've loved this book since we were school children. You had such faith in it then, have some now." He caressed the pages of the thin book, and then put it swiftly into her upraised hands. His wand in his other hand, there was something sad in the victorious smile he gave her then, it was fleeting but telling. She feared for him, having seen it.

"He's right, it won't be easy, but he is right." Hermione found herself relaxing, not at the words, but at who spoke them. Luna Lovegood smiled dreamily having stepped lightly up beside Hermione, her liquid moon-silver gaze unfocused in the here-and-now, but Seeing, as was her birthright.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"War-Lord…? Are you well?" He found the constant worry for his health, as if he might sicken suddenly and topple over into death, grating. Still, he gritted his teeth and looked to see which of his three war-generals had spoken. None of them were fully human.

Neville Longbottom was partly elf, and had an affinity with growing things. Harry knew others often forgot (though Harry never would) how frightening Neville could be when he chose. Planets that were dangerous flourished at his hand, and wielded ruthlessly in the War. It was not done to disagree with Neville lightly; he was terrifying in his own right. Neville had put himself firmly at Harry's side after Ron had fallen, even against the wishes of his formidable fully-elf "Gran", Augusta. His seconds were Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, of which Harry did not entirely disapprove of. Though he half thought Colin Creevey and Dennis had joined merely to torment Harry in their awe of him.

Fleur Delacour, as a part-Veela, had held her ties to Bill Weasley as sacred, as all family was to a Veela; with his death, she had gone to harry, telling him bluntly to let her fight – or she would wage war against the Dark Lord single-handedly. Harry had not disbelieved her. Her only daughter, Victoire was the only Weasley born child living; the others the Dark Lord had seen fit to hunt down and kill to make examples of. With her sister Gabrielle and Tonks as her second-in-commands, the sisters and Metamorphmagus were a fierce and passionate trio on the battle field and were never underestimated; not even by the elite Death Eaters of the Dark Lord. Of course, her fraction was made up entirely of females; Padma and Parvati Patil not entirely approving of this. Katie Bell only found it all the more hilarious, though neither Lavender Brown nor Cho Chang found it so. They were, none the less, effective.

The last and most surprising of his war-generals was the former Slytherin, Blaise Zabini, who Harry knew to be part hag –if on his mother's side, though it didn't show except in his physical abilities. With, at his request, Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy his acting as his seconds; he managed good control over his mood. Harry himself could never trust Draco, and Draco preferred working with Blaise, so it suited them. Victor Krum had settled easily among them, and his fierce loyalty to Harry wasn't questioned, he was after all a war-general in his own right when the Dark Lord took to the skies.

It had been Krum who asked, heavy brows frowning in obvious curiosity.

Harry reached, absent-minded, to sooth the ruffled feathers of his companion, the phoenix Dumbledore had named Fawkes, who Harry suspected was Bennu.

"No. I want an end to this War; even if I must bleed in self-sacrifice to achieve it." Harry allowed, knowing they would not take well to his words or what he intended to do. Draco stirred, raising a pale eyebrow – looking only once to the silent-struck Blaise before speaking his mind, with a blunt tongue, as he usually took to doing when Harry seemed the most oblivious to what he thought to be obvious.

"All that's very well said, and pretty to think what we've been doing for five years so meets with your approval. What has that to do with you totting about with a phoenix on your shoulders, Potter?" Malfoy asked in a soft aristocratic drawl, blue eyes shining his amusement. He did not yet grasp what Harry fully meant to do with this move, but was sure it was foolish and bold and with Hermione behind it's making, brilliant. That didn't mean that Draco wouldn't tease and mock him for playing this all so dramatically; as if for Draco's own pleasure. Harry knew that this was only Draco's way, and he would be least pleased to learn there was nothing else to what Harry had planned but to go through with what he said so simply.

"When the sun rises, I will go with all of you onto the battlefield; I will engage the Dark Lord in an honorable duel. You will make sure none interfere from his side, and likely, he will have his watch us. He will not believe it to be anything but a trick." Harry glanced to Fawkes, who preened at being watched – it knew it was being spoken about, even if it could not answer back as it had in the days after the Founders.

"It _won't_ be?" Neville spoke carefully; narrow eyed and clearly looking to Fawkes as if the bird had some part to play in his newly acquired insanity. Which, of course, it _did_ …if in a more roundabout way then Neville likely suspected. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas having seen where Neville looked, glanced between each other their expressions of coming mischief obvious.

"No, absolutely not. You are family, 'Arry, Bill sayz, adopted-brother. I will not see you die too, someone must teach Victoire of her father's family." Fleur Delacour had stood, her skin shivering like something moved beneath it. Gabrielle did not reach to calm her, as only she could, instead she stared at Harry wide-eyed, as if she feared she was looking at the soon-to-be dead speak.

"I've already sent a messenger to the Dark Lord. Fleur, would you see me take my hand away from what I reach for – as if some coward?" Harry asked of her, already knowing the answer. When it came to leaving someone behind or sacrifice one for the good of all, Fleur would not ever do such a thing, willing or no.

"When it is Death itself you reach for? Yes!" Fleur hissed back, her hands clenching as talons grew in place of nails.

"This is not a vote. It's an order I give you now; I will be on that battlefield, and I will face him, and you will stand beside me, or stand aside, or be there not at all." Harry snapped his final say. In the silence that followed, he walked away.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _You are most foolish, boy. This futile effort of a last resort will only result in your death this day. Then what will they do_?" Tom didn't speak English, no he spoke the serpent-tongue, and though Harry _knew_ he was being goaded into answering in like fashion in front of his people. This was a ploy to bring them to doubt him. Wizards went quickly mad and dark, when they sought to speak the tongue of beasts.

" _Do they, I wonder, not see how futile all this is now_?" Tom hissed, mocking, playing with Harry until Harry could stand it no longer.

"Keep them out of this, Tom. This isn't about them, it's about us." He answered then, if in English still. A small victory on his part, for still his people knew (would know) that he understood what Tom said when they could not. And they would wonder, and doubt – and fear and worry. Then, most deadly of all - lose hope.

" _Of course, Harry, as you wish; you request from me an honorable death-duel. How noble._ Come, then, Harry, test me. We will see which of us is to die this day." Half in Parseltongue and half in English, Tom none the less had accepted Harry's terms. Harry felt a heaviness he had known most of his life lift off his chest, shifting. It was then that Harry knew this was really happening and he had to take what was happening seriously. It felt then, all too real.

The Dark Lord's red eyes glittered and with a softly spoken spell, there was a shimmering veil-dome that wrapped around Harry and Tom, separating both from their respective sides.

" _Do you know what I think I will do with your favorites, Harry? I think I will let my Death Eaters have their fun with them. If they survive that, well, I'll drive them mad – if they aren't already! – and let them see, again and again and again, what I did to you. I will do so many things to you, Harry. They will know they failed you, know just how foolishly you died for them. We could do great things together, do you not see that_?" Tom murmured, soft and husky now that they were alone and could not be disturbed. It brought a chill to Harry, the reminder of the graveyard where his unwilling blood had been taken to give birth to Tom's body.

" _Shut up_." Harry growled the words, slipping unwillingly into Parseltongue. Tom's eyes narrowed and Harry tensed, knowing he had to time it right. Their wands had to lock.

"We are equals here, Harry. I do not obey you; if you want to die so eagerly, very well. Die." Harry would only have to say one word, one Name – and Bennu would come, Harry hoped... he started to doubt and shook his head, which Tom took to be a denial of they being "equals", so it was just as well. Harry had a moment of blankness as Tom started in a familiar wand pattern, and Harry had sinking feeling in his gut that this meeting would not do nearly so well as he had hoped.

"Crucio!" Tom hissed, the word rolling off his tongue in savagery.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry cries out, almost as if in protest, though a sort of wavering panic has settled into his voice – it is the first spell he had ever learned. The spells hit each other, rather then either caster. A hum started in his bones and ears, familiar and strange and beautiful, it was a song he would know if he forgot everything else. A golden thread jolts their wands stiff and unbending within their hands, unmoving and waiting.

Tom's red eyes widened, recognizing it and far less pleased.

"Is this your trick, Harry? I must say, it has gotten old." Harry does not know if Tom's spoken in Parseltongue or English and can't bring himself to worry about why. He closes his eyes, letting them fall shut and trusting in the likeness of the effects to Priori Incantatem to keep Tom from guessing that Harry was closing his eyes to concentrate and gather the strength of his will, rather then on trying to remember the Name, how it _should_ sound upon his tongue, though the words had been unsaid.

"No tricks, Tom. I only want you to remember..." Harry trailed off, opening his eyes to meet Tom's own.

"Remember what, Harry?" Tom asked, lazy and certain he had the upper hand. Harry smiled then, and it was not a nice smile.

" _Bennu_." Harry spoke the Name and the song of the phoenix that hummed in the air paused, wavered as if to start again in surprise; then ceased all together though the wands still joined by silver and gold binding light.

All was very still and quiet for an impossibly long moment.

"What is this you've done now, Potter?" Tom asked, sneering arrogantly at Harry likely thinking whatever he had attempted to do to Tom, had obviously failed. Harry, for a moment, thought so too. The silver dome cracked then fully in half, and as the stuff of magic tumbled into the ground like too solid bricks, Harry looked up, and 'Fawkes' feathers of red and gold shining like a second sun, swooped into to land upon Harry's shoulder.

"I do now Remember my Name, and yours, Harry Potter. I will Remember you." Black eyes gleamed at Harry, bird-like, and Harry believed the words because he felt the Power of them crawl along his skin.

"What's this? Albus's pet phoenix has learned to speak?" Tom sounded baffled by what was happening, and rather disbelieving at Harry's gall.

"I am the Bennu bird, the Heart-Soul of Ra, the Guide of the Gods to the Duat. You will know me well now, Tom Marvolo Riddle. You will die." Black eyes seemed to wink at Harry, and Harry felt rather then saw that the silver and gold that held the wands apart and together thrummed at the end of the Bennu's words. Harry felt his hands get hot, as if his wand was burning – he looked then, as his hands began to burn in blue fire. He closed his eyes then, tight, rather then watching what was happening to him – he smelt it though, his flesh boiling in the head, and heard himself start to scream.

He could not stop.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

A burning wave of heat arched along his otherwise deadened body, his vision – until then unseeing, had turned everything a milky-white, an explosion of pain resounded through the whole of his body. When Harry later thought to compare it something understandable, it was to being _ripped_ to tiny pieces, then, in after thought, fit back together again. Unrecognizable, but wholly himself

Even as this warped Humpty Dumpty of himself; his vision was still a burly milky-white. Everything which he could see was, from the tips of his hair, to his hands, was transparent. Alike a ghost, or like finding himself drunk underneath the Invisibility Cloak, in a way he thought of it as a _soft_ reality – as if not quite as real as it was supposed to be, and _blurry,_ which was, in retrospect, was very normal for someone who wore glasses. From what Harry could remember (and he remembered quite a bit) he had never seen anything like this.

Startlingly clear, a figure appeared in his line of sight, appearing out of no-where, he was alarmingly … _clear_ to his vision - inhumanly so. Startlingly enough, from the navel of torso down his body was a black tailed serpent. He carried a big stick, no, a spear. There was something poisonous and deadly about it.

"Who are you?" He questioned, unable to help himself in asking. His voice, he was surprised to hear, echoed in this off-white hazy place. Until the man had appeared, Harry thought he had been without his glasses, but he had realized that where ever he was – it was _naturally_ this way. Creamy colored, hazy almost to the point of blurring. There was, literally, nothing wrong with Harry's eyes – at least as far as seeing the man was concerned.

It was as if…as if Harry, when he had been "fit back together again" had indeed been re-shaped to another's liking. In this case – his eyesight was perfect, Harry wondered though – what else had Bennu seen fit to do to him? What had he become? Where was he…? Was _this_ what dying was?

" **I am the God** **Mehen, Guard of the The Boat of a Million Years, that sails between worlds. You are not Apophis, the Destroyer, or any of his rendering. I know this. Still, what are you, a mortal, doing here** **Harry James Potter…"** The masculine voice was calm, Harry _knew_ with a certainty that went bone deep and crossed every instinct he had, that this man – this God, wasn't joking about _who_ and – essentially, _what_ he was.

At this realization, Harry felt his insides chill, his heart caught in his throat- he couldn't speak. Couldn't even think, when he managed to (by glancing away from Mehen), his first thought shocked him.

' _Mehen is …striking_.' This, Harry realized when he thought about it - and had taken the proper amount of time to _look_ at Mehen, was true.

Mehen had midnight black hair, which fell like waves down his back, brushing mid-waist; his eyes were like the night sky- entirely black, with the secrets of ages older then the stars inside – seeming to shine out. His skin was (if Harry were to be ' _romantic'_ about it) creamy. His lips were full, which made him wonder, with a tightening in his lower regions what a kiss from Mehen would be like.

At his thought, Harry didn't think it was entirely his imagination when he saw amusement arch across those night-sky eyes.

" **You _are_ Harry James Potter**." Mehen insisted, Harry jerked – nodding, then freezing, he hadn't known he was _supposed_ to respond when Mehen had introduced himself. If he was, what was he to say to this fierce protector? ' _Killed anyone interesting, lately_?' That would most certainly only result in a swift demise.

Mehen's serpent dark eyes were suddenly focused, alert, as if Harry had done something of dire interest – it was, Harry knew in that moment, very intimidating to be stared at like _that_. All of what made Mehen what he was, a protector – a _Guard_ of a ship _for Gods_ , focused upon him, staring him in the face.

 _No_ , Harry realized suddenly, Mehen's eyes _weren't_ staring him in the _face_. They were staring _through_ him, _into_ him. Harry decided to say something after all, so Mehen wouldn't find something… _wrong_ , with him. Harry didn't really grasp why, but quite suddenly, it was _important_ to him that Mehen not think anything was ' _wrong'_ with him. He credited it to good survival instincts. Mehen obviously seemed the kind of God that was able to "see" what made up a person, good and bad.

" _Y-yes, I am_." Harry stammered in answer - for it seemed the only thing he could do, besides just standing where he was. It was the truth after all, he _was_ Harry Potter. Mehen's attention drifted off, and Harry was at once both relieved, and –oddly - struck with jealousy over whatever now held Mehen's attention. It was then that Harry realized, he had spoken in Parseltongue while Mehen had not.

" **You have died.** **You are not _supposed_ to have died,"** Mehen told him, quite sternly, as if Harry was to go back and change what had happened, " **under our Laws,** **Ma'at has Judged that you have one of two Choices."** Mehen smiled, Harry paid it notice, but his mind was caught on what Hermione would think if she heard that Ma'at existed in truth. It was, to Harry, somewhat of a great puddle of irony considering his life thus far.

 **"If you so Chose, you** **may Relive the Event of your Death; so it may play out correctly…"**

 **'** _Not bloody likely!'_ Harry thought, his expression of mixed disbelief and just a tab bit of desperation, caused Mehen to chuckle. Harry did not think it nearly so amusing, having been so recently burned to death.

" **Or…"**

 **'** _There is a 'or' thank you, Ma'at!'_ If Ma'at had appeared, and Mahen pointed her out as such – Harry could have kissed her.

 **"You are to go where and when, Between the Worlds, that you are Needed**."…Or kick her. It just _figured_ Ma'at would be a bitch.

Harry gnaws at his upper lip, for it was obvious to him that between the two choices, which one Harry would choose, Harry _could not_ return, for doing so would return Voldemort to life. Or so he suspected. Finally, Harry opened his mouth- and Mehen seemed to gather himself to hear the answer.

" _I will go where, and when, I am needed_." Harry told Mehen truthfully, unable to help him self in speaking the serpent tongue with Mehen so bluntly joined at the hip as one. Who would lie to a God after all? Mehen was only the most stunning being Harry had ever set eyes on, and he wanted Mehen to at least think well of him.

Mehen seemed not to sense his inner turmoil, or if he did, and paid attention to it… in any case, Mehen did not let on to Harry that he had. Regardless, Mehen nodded, then moved in closer while Harry watched, it was _interesting_ the way Mehen's hips seemed to sway and thrust as he moved the tail slithering forth, a mere breath away.

" **While you seek what Ma'at wishes for you to find. Then…I will wait for you, Beloved…"** Harry felt himself freeze, the breath whooshing out of him in surprise. Fingers he hadn't seen move drifted down his cheek, knuckles scraping against his stubble, then fingertips touched under his jaw, flexing against the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Pulling him forward then with an urgency that Harry didn't resist, he was too stunned. A forked tongue flicked against his lips, tasting and scenting him all at once, when Harry did not struggle, Mehen moved still closer into his personal space (which Mehen was more then welcome to share) just teasing him for a moment, letting Harry smell the sweet spice and tang of metal.

' _Mehen loves…me?'_ Harry's eyes had gone very disbelievingly wide, uncomprehending. Even as Mehen, his eyes sad somehow, smiled, and pulled Harry bodily against him, muscles smooth and sleek and flexing as if to hold Harry in place for all time, kissing Harry boldly on the lips only then, secure against the God and unresisting. Warmth trickled from them, demanding and searing, tingling into his mouth and urging – daring - him take a careful lick at the Gods lips. At the taste, heat hit low in his belly, and Harry thought he might have forgotten how to breathe.

In that dizzyingly blissful moment, Harry was sent on his way, and Mehen was left suddenly alone. Serpent like, he hissed, feeling keenly very much betrayed by all that he had served before with such vigor to preserve.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry took a breath, inhaling gritty sand with the sweet air.

When Harry came back to awareness, slow and still dizzy as his mind swam into focus; not quite yet glad that pain had been replaced by the biting promise of pleasure. He found himself surrounded by silver-white sand, standing on it. Alone. With nothing within sight but _miles_ of hot sand, it was, to say the least – a bit disturbing. The sand was pearly white in the moonlight; it spilled over the sand, calming, cooling, and somehow… reassuring.

Harry remembered the look in Mehen's eyes – and his kiss. He shivered pleasantly, wonderingly, and then it occurred to him, crashing into his blissful moment of memory. If he was meant to go "where he was needed" _why_ would he be needed in a desert? It seemed he had been "accidentally" displaced. And what, after all, was he looking for that Ma'at would want him to find here?

If, this made no sense, then, perhaps Mehen was nothing but a pleasantly delusional dream. The backfiring of the wand cores _could_ have sent him to a desert. So, that left Harry; wandless, delusional, but alive. If this was true, Harry hoped Voldemort was not so lucky.

Harry sighed in disappointment, his 'delusion' shattered. He swallowed down the bile gathering in his dry throat; Harry then started to walk, aimlessly, yet hoping for the right direction.

Walking on sand was something new he had to get used to- for Harry had never done it before. He had to move carefully with his weight, one displacement of balance- and he started to sink into the sand. He had to move quickly, or else the sand would creep up on him. In other words, he had to move with purpose - even if there wasn't one to be seen. He scanned the area around him; each step led him closer to a rise- a mountain of sand, Harry hoped it would give him perspective of the nearby area.

Hoping he'd see something else other then sand. Hell, he'd settle for _Death Eaters_. Finally, he made it up the sand hill; he bent at the waist, leaning his weight on his knees as he gripped them, just pausing long enough to gain his balance. And, Harry would admit only to himself – to catch his breath.

As he looked up, he caught sight of a stone, glittering in the light of the moon, the little pebble-sized black stone lay in the pearl-white sand, seemingly abandoned by time, it brought prangs of memory raining down onto his heart.

Harry picked it up, looking it over closely; seeing it, Harry realized it's likeness to Mehen's eyes was undeniable; Harry _knew,_ somehow, that it was meant to be his. He clenched it in his fist, and rose from his half-kneeling, and looked out over the landscape that surrounded him. There was sand, of course; but something _else_ in the distance.

Nestled between the shadows of two great dunes, was a great palace. Even from so far away, Harry saw the sand give way to fertile earth; trees – the like of which he had never seen, yet trees nonetheless, grew in even spaces beside the palace.

It was a long way off, but Harry thought he could walk it before sunrise.

If not, he knew to wait till dusk rather then die of wandering in the wrong direction. Harry set out then, with a real destination set firmly in his mind. As Harry walked along the rise of the sand hill, he wondered what he would say to them.

If, indeed, he could _explain_ his presence; they would be suspicious, and have every right to be. Harry had never been out of his homeland before, and therefore, he did not know what to expect. Would these people- who had his fate in their hands, even know what a wizard _was_?

Would they expect him to prove it, even without his wand? Harry stumbled on the sand, the stone in his grip shuddered, and Harry opened his fingers to look down at it. At first, he could not believe what he saw. The stone shuddered again, warm to the touch, and slowly melted- then _disappeared_ into his skin, seeming only a black pulsing heartbeat beneath his palm. Harry shook his head, was it possible that this desert, even in the night, was giving him delusions?

Not wanting to wonder about things he had no control over, Harry decided this was so, and continued on.

As he walked, Harry saw the palace coming into sight; it _was_ huge- and he expected he would have to walk quite a while more to reach it, yet even from this distance he could see the giant stone columns of marble that linked the high ceilings to the palace floor. A long staircase met the sand, a staircase Harry now walked upon, even as it continued to the palace. Along the way to the palace, on this staircase, Harry saw many statues of Gods and Goddesses he did not understand, having never studied myths. He knew of only the Bennu and Mehen.

Most were half man, or woman, and half animal; some entirely animal- and all had writing on them, all of which blurred and stretched in his sight. Harry wondered then if these people had some form of spell on them; to ensure that he, or others who saw this place, would not see the True Names of their Gods and Goddesses.

Finally, Harry came to the place were staircase met palace, and stopped, feeling too much like an intruder. He called out, and his voice echoed among the great pillars and statues.

Harry felt suddenly light headed and dizzy, Harry felt something rush though him- and leave; he thought it felt like a spell of intent, _his intent_ though it left burred impressions of the emotions of the originator. Harry found himself falling to the polished floor. He blinked back the familiar blurry-white sight. As he was shaking it off, Harry was relieved to hear voices coming toward him; footsteps, and the glare of torch light running through the shadows.

Perhaps it was bad timing, but Harry's body then gave out on him, and he fell unconscious, just as the place dwellers came into sight.

Behind his back, the sun rose, setting against his dusky tanned skin and his black hair like a shimmering cloak.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry awoke in a shadowed room; even though he knew, somehow, that it was day. A woman sat beside him – she was dressed in fine, if odd, clothes. When Harry asked her name, she shook her head, a light frown pressing down her lips. It was obvious she did not understand what he said.

She called out; a man, a clear leader, and a set of six guards, entered the room. He looked down on Harry, judged him, as a man would a subject, and as Harry had looked at his own war-generals when they had purposed a risky maneuver, and then he spoke, it was Harry's turn to be confused. The language was alike to nothing he had ever heard before; but it was lovely to hear. The man frowned, and then looked to his guards- called out a name in turn, _Imhotep,_ Harry understood – then looked down at Harry again.

The woman touched his shoulder, pointed to her self and spoke her name, slowly, so Harry could understand it. _Nefertiri_. Harry looked to the man, he looked amused- as if he didn't think Harry would understand her. As if Harry were savage, because he was different then them, far different; they had rich golden dark skin, they were lean, attractive and very exotic, lovely to behold, like art.

Harry was suddenly bitter– somewhat resentful, for next to them he was a pale shadow; and what could Mehen the Protector and Guard of a Godly vessel possibly see in him, next to people like these, to call him 'beloved'?

Harry felt a strong urge to prove he _could_ speak, could learn; that he _could_ prove himself, _somehow_ , next to them. Harry mimicked her,and spoke his name, Harry.

 _Harii_ was what their ears heard. The man looked startled, saw him again; looked at him with newly measuring dark eyes.

Almost in mockery, he pointed to himself, and spoke his name; _Seti_.

Harry swallowed, the bitter and resentful feelings washing away in a chilling thought.

He knew of only one 'leader' in all the history of the world who'd called himself Seti. Harry had learned of him when Ron still alive and in Hogwarts, got back from his vacation in Egypt, had shown off to Hermione that he had, in fact, bothered to learn _something_.

Harry had never forgotten it – for it had proved to be amusing. Seti, Harry knew, was an Ancient Egyptian King of more then three-thousand years ago….

Ma'at, it seemed, had a _lot_ to answer for. How could he _possibly_ find what she wanted him to look for, in a place such as this, where he was a stranger to this time and these people?


	2. In Which We Learn To Act Like An Egyptian

"Seti."

Harry echoed his name perfectly. Tasting its truth on his tongue, and the bitterness in his mouth, became the slow numbness of disbelief. In the moment Harry said it aloud, it became glaringly obvious that this was, no matter how unbelievable, also _true_. Of the Egypt he had studied _before_ going into Hogwarts, he remembered nothing of the modern palace he had seen upon coming out from the desert.

Seti looked down at Harry with some surprise; Harry had to resist gawking back. Though the reason for Seti's surprise, and the reason for Harry's were after all, _entirely_ different. Seti was surprised that what he had thought was a savage could pronounce noble Egyptian names with ease.

Nefertiri, who had called her father here after Imhotep had brought him into the palace, looked very pleased; indeed, she had every right to be. Her father's advisers had told him to ignore her summons to see the stranger. That, _surely,_ some foreign savage could not be more important then the matters of his lands.

Now, however, upon seeing the stranger and hearing him speak, he was convinced he had made the right decision in venturing here to glimpse the foreigner. Where there was one that could learn their tongue, there were more.

" _You see now, father? He can speak correctly_ _._ " Nefertiri told Seti this, while the boy blinked up at her, he _understood_ her. She knew it to be true. It was, yet to Harry, every word echoed upon itself into warped English, as if heard from beneath still water.

" _We shall see, daughter_." Seti murmured softly, not yet prepared to admit _all_ his advisers and priests had been utterly in the wrong. Seti glanced then at the only door into the guest chambers, clearly expecting someone to come through at any moment. In but a moment longer, Harry's suspicions would be proven right.

Harry watched wide-eyed as a man, imposing, tall- and bald and shaved, entered the chambers. There was something in the way he moved that told Harry that this man was dangerous in his own right and not to be underestimated. The others Seti had brought with him, they looked upon this not-stranger with mild distaste. Not for that which he was, for his station was clearly highly regarded, but rather that it his _appearance_ was objectionable in their eyes. Baldness and thinning hair, Harry made quick note of, was mostly frowned upon in this land. He didn't know what _use_ he would gain of it, but it was _something_ he knew that he might later put to use.

Nefertiri, upon having seen Harry's astonished gaze, leaned in nearer to whispered into his ear with earnest ease, seeking to settle him least he make a hasty action and startle the wary guards; " _This is the man who saved you, Harii_."

The man, _Imhotep_ , Seti had called him, looked down upon him sitting very still but upright upon the bed he had awoke on; _something_ inside Harry screamed that he should get away. He remembered the backlash of intent that washed upon his mind in the aftermath of a spell. Harry, uncomfortable with the sensation, had shoved it down, silencing it – only later would he have wished he'd at least have sense enough to have listened to his own gut instinct, or even obeyed it.

Harry was left yet still wondering what he should do in this situation, merely nodded very carefully and clearly to Imhotep. It was not quite respect, but it was an acknowledgement. Imhotep, who looked him up and down, _carefully_ , and something alike to approval mixed with lust flickered in his dark gaze.

" _Thank you_ _._ " Harry found himself saying, without getting approval from his brain. What was he saying that for? This man knew how strange Harry found this place. Was he saying 'thank you for lusting after me and making me realize how stupid envy is?'; regardless, the damage had been done. Imhotep merely nodded silently in acknowledgement of the greeting – and the gratitude.

Harry, though, wondered at what they heard when he spoke; was it like when they spoke to him? He hoped he didn't echo and warp their language. Still, now Seti seemed even more intrigued with him. Harry remembered too late that he hadn't spoken words, only names. Maybe despite his clear difference from them, they wouldn't consider how strange it was, his speaking their tongue.

" _I trust you are well rested, Harii_ _?_ " Imhotep spoke softly to him, his kohl lined eyes dark. It was as if he knew that Harry had wanted to bolt from him and trying to sway him into staying. When he looked to them to gauge how to go onward, neither Nefertiri nor Seti seemed to think anything was wrong with this so clearly important man taking an interest in him, Harry deemed it alright to speak with Imhotep.

Nonetheless, instead of speaking, Harry nodded an affirmative, but otherwise remained stubbornly silent; frowning only slightly, Imhotep let him alone.

" _Where do you come from_ _?_ " Seti took the time to ask, apparently having his own agenda of questions to ask of the boy-man, who had wondered through the desert at night; only to end up collapsed on the palace steps in the morning. It was not all that surprising to want to know that much of him. At least with Seti, Harry knew where he stood; he had to answer, or risk insulting a man that deemed himself a ruler in his own land and birthright. If he insulted Seti, he knew he'd be punished – unknowing savage (a disguise he was too quickly shedding them of) or not.

It did not much surprise him, the asking. Harry had known _this_ question would have to come up sooner or later - although he had _hoped_ he wouldn't be asked so soon after waking; he felt at that moment very prone and defenseless, in a chamber surrounded by the guards and confidents of an ancient ruler.

" _Far away; I do not remember the way._ _It doesn't matter, I am alone_." Harry muttered, slightly bitter in this, his words broken up toward the end. He cursed himself mentally, when he heard Nefertiri inhale with surprise; then he reviewed what he had said. What had they found fault in? He at least, _should_ have known better to speak in such a way around curious people used to getting their way in things. Maybe if he had said it in a more diplomatic way. Yet he was tired, so some self-excuse could be argued for his own sake. Nefertiri turned to look down at him, something akin to sorrow in her eyes. Harry, at that moment, was just glad it wasn't pity. It had to be bad, whatever he'd unintentionally let slip.

" _You are an outcast_ _?_ " Seti asked in disbelief, and Harry realized quite suddenly that _in this time_ , no one traveled into, or out of, the desert with no destination. Unless, of course, if they were outcasts of their society, or roving bandits. Which was, when Harry thought of it, the most likely reason the people of this time who lived in these lands thought so lowly of people born outside their lands; they had only encountered the dredges of other societies of this time.

Yet, Seti and Nefertiri seemed willing to look past this. And this was despite Harry's marked foreign appearance; he did not, to them, seem the type of person who would become a bandit _or_ outcast. Harry found himself laughing, and really – he found - he couldn't help it. It was, to him, ironic; he was the _hero_ of his time, and yet, thought an _outcast_ or _thief_ in this the ancient past.

Nefertiri and Seti looked between each other, sharing looks of concern and some alarm; together then, they looked to Imhotep, who frowned down at the hysterical boy, worry alight in his eyes. Then, upon seeing out of the corner of his eyes, their looks, Imhotep turned easily his attention to them, finding an answer smoothly at the tip of his tongue.

" _Likely this is some form of sun-sickness_." Imhotep said, giving them a perfectly sane reason for Harry's rather bewildering behavior. The behavior explained away for a natural reaction rather then a possession or curse, they let the teenager finish his burst of laughter. Although, secretly both Nefertiri and Imhotep thought something was _off_ in the way he laughed; as if it _pained_ him.

" _Perhaps… it would be best if we announced his arrival during the duel tonight_." Nefertiri spoke, trying to bring some normalcy into the situation. Seti looked then to his daughter, guessing her reasons and frowned slightly. The guards knew of all the royal family held within the palace; and to announce a stranger in the presence of so many, was to invite Harry to stay for _far_ longer then some of the more favored ambassadors from foreign lands were allowed. Yet, Harry _was_ a curiosity, and one Seti intended to get to the heart of.

" _Are you sure of this, daughter?_ " Seti probed carefully, and Nefertiri, her mind already quite firmly set in her decision, gestured that she was. Harry, it seemed, would not get a choice in whatever either were planning. Which, honestly, was to be expected, he gathered; rulers were not in the habit of considering strangers from unknown lands their equals. Harry knew he could not expect it of them.

" _I_ _should get him cleaned up; if, as your daughter insists, he is to watch her duel with Anck-su-namun_." Imhotep spoke out, and Nefertiri paused, and then abruptly nodded, in if unhappy agreement. Yet, it was clear to her father that she was still wary of Imhotep doing something with Harry, who she'd so acutely formed a bond with. Not thinking much of his daughter's suspicions, Seti merely grinned at Imhotep, clasping him on the shoulder as a clear and favored friend.

" _I trust you, and your fellow priests, shall do a fine job! Come my daughter; let us go greet my future-wife_ _._ " Seti spoke, and then motioned for Nefertiri to follow him out. Harry watched them leave, and their guards; until all who remained in the room was him self – and Imhotep. He looked to the other, expectant, but abiding his time; it would do him no good to rush into anything. Most especially as his own instincts about this man, and Nefertiri's were one and the same.

" _Lay still_ _, Harii_." Imhotep had asked, or rather (as Harry well knew), ordered of him. Imhotep gave him something to drink, his face expressionless. Harry, suspicious, smelt it; it smelt of some herb, then for the first time in quite a while, he wished he had paid better attention in Herbology.

Neville, if he were here, would tell him – _after_ having a good laugh over his rather suspicious position.

" _It will help with the sun-sickness_." Imhotep told Harry, somewhat reassuring, his tone suggesting a mild rebuttal for doubting him. Harry, swallowing down his suspicions- and drowning the voice inside his head that sounded like Mad-Eye Moody yelling at him for his stupidity, drunk the substance.

Harry felt the effects quite quickly, time seemed to blur and slow, nonetheless Imhotep descended upon him as if in a rush, but Harry felt as if he were not fit to judge with time passing so dizzyingly. He made quick work of striping him of his robe, cutting him out of form-fitting pants, and the military-style tunic was quickly slit from the neck to the trim. There seemed no mercy in Imhotep to save anything – not even undergarments - and it wasn't as if Harry wanted all this to happen. Harry _tried_ to struggle, tried to yell- but couldn't. It gave him a sickening feeling in his throat and gut, forcing him still to let it pass or fear throwing up. That he learned the hard way, groaning softly as he closed his eyes and tried to will the lurching sea-sickness away.

The next thing Harry knew, Imhotep had applied a skin cream- and Harry _did not want to know_ what was in it.

Then, just as time seemed to be going _too quickly_ for Harry to ever catch up, Imhotep stepped foreword. _Closer_. His dark eyes took in everything about Harry's body, and he seemed pleased by what he was seeing.

Harry shivered, never in his life had he been looked at in that way. Imhotep came closer – invading his personal space, raising his hand to brush his fingertips across Harry's forehead and cheek, to tilt his chin up, Imhotep's dark eyes gazing into Harry's green ones.

Harry locked eyes with Imhotep, silently pleading, asking with his eyes what they, what _he_ , was doing, or was _going_ to do with him.

Then Imhotep, taking out a _thing_ that would have looked like a hatchet- if not for the curved handle pressed it against Harry's cheek - and Harry found himself holding his breath, and Imhotep – seeing his, _smirked_.

" _Stay still_." Imhotep ordered, then, much to Harry's shock, Imhotep started to use the 'razor' he started with Harry's chin and off came the stubble on his cheeks, using some soapy substance. Harry laid still, at first, because he felt so removed from what was happening; wide eyed and not quite believing that _this_ was happening to him.

Harry thought he might be done (having also decided at last minute that his eyebrows and nose hairs needed a trim), after he'd finished plucking his eyebrows– but no, Imhotep moved onto Harry's underarms, each time scrubbing thoroughly to be sure there was not a stand of hair left on his skin. Despite that (or because of this fact) Imhotep showed some skill in this. Harry didn't want to end up with cuts, and had come to realize in bewildered half-amused despair that perhaps Imhotep would not be content until _every little bit_ of hair Harry had was gone.

Harry had best lay there and take it and let it be over with. He'd deal later with what it all meant that Imhotep _himself_ was intent to shave _Harry_ with such skilled careful long and short strokes, such methodical precision must of have been put to other uses of value. Why waste it upon Harry?

By the time Imhotep was through, or Harry _thought_ he was- _everything_ from underarms to his arms, chest, and legs – and a lot in-between had been shaved. Then Imhotep started to go _down there_ , between his legs, and Harry tensed, letting out a whimper; Imhotep noticed (how could he not?) and looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

" _Do you want lice_ _?_ " Was the softly hissed question, but not – yet – a threat or demand; and Imhotep was listening to him, waiting – not ignoring him. And while Harry didn't, in fact, want lice, he did insist (by pointing his eyes to the door) that Imhotep leave.

" _I'll do it_." His voice wavered, it was not a demand – it was begging and he _knew_ it. _Please don't_. His eyes pled with a darker pair, silently. Harry didn't want Imhotep to do this; he wanted this to be the end of it, as far as it would go.

It was quite _obvious_ what with the firm touches Imhotep had gifted him with that Imhotep was _more_ interested in Harry then Harry thought he should be allowed. Even going so far as to play with Harry's nipple to "keep from cutting it", along with the would-be deadly razor-blade caresses with just the slightest difference in pressure and care.

The instance sticking to Harry's mind the most was Imhotep shaving his throat and nicking his neck – lapping up the blood with his tongue. Imhotep wanted him, wanted to _screw_ him; and Harry wasn't nearly so obvious or ignorant to think what Imhotep could do to him and have Harry at his mercy without much protest in so foreign a land as this.

Imhotep chuckled dark – soft, as if he had understood all that crossed Harry's mind and thought it charming or innocent. He trailed the hatchet-ax 'razor' down from the dip in Harry's throat to his navel. Harry swallowed then, when Imhotep – his eyes dark and sharp having seen Harry's face as he had moved the blade downwards; Harry found his breath shallow and careful. Imhotep had more then made his point. He had the power here; could do with Harry as he wanted, and no one would protest his right. Imhotep smiled then, triumphant; knowing full well that Harry had realized his place.

Then without a word more, Imhotep started, cradling in his long fingers Harry's most senstitive places, and with his other the blade. Harry shut his eyes tightly, inhaling quickly to hold his breath. He couldn't look, could not risk breathing – it did not matter to Harry how carefully Imhotep treated him, how precious and venerable he felt. He hated this, right now – and, worse, knew he was _excited_ by it. It was stimulating, the newly smooth skin tingled and the blade felt rough and firm rather then hard and sharp and deadly.

He felt those fingers, nails trimmed and soft skinned, move teasing – _taunting_ , while Harry was caught in Imhotep's grip and at his mercy. Harry didn't trust him, but still it stuck him low, how easily Harry could find himself trusting Imhotep. This act, whatever else it was, built trust and some sick clinging form of dependence twisted at Harry guiltily.

Harry realized he was breathing again. It came softly, lulled into the feeling of safety Imhotep had inevitably inspired within him. And lust, as Harry had never slackened in that. Harry felt the effects of the drug slowly lifting, though he knew they weren't gone completely. He had no idea how much time had passed.

He knew he was getting hard, already rigid and firm with Imhotep's fingers tangling around him, moving him so the wicked blade could scrape his sensitive and fragile flesh smooth. Imhotep shifted, as Harry felt the warm air move around his bare skin. A breath blew gently at loins, a finger circling the head of his member.

Harry shivered, and could not help himself.

" _Do you seek your release, Harii_ …?" Imhotep asked of him, no taunt in his voice. He was asking Harry, giving him a choice – and Harry clung to it as fact, even if he could not help his answer.

" _Yes_." Harry whispered it, broken and trembling; unable to help who he trusted.

" _Then I shall give this to you. A gift_." Imhotep murmured breathily, warm and slick mouth closing around his flesh. Harry dared not look; but that did not mean he could not _feel_. He felt it tucking at him, building upon him, aware that he had spread his legs and thighs for Imhotep unasked so the other could settle between them more comfortably. He lay there, sprawled and wanton, like some waiting pleasure-slave at the mercy of Imhotep.

It thrilled him, as much as he felt the blow of self-disgust. He did not care in the moment – could not care.

" _Aaa, Please_!" Harry spoke, begged breathlessly – for the first time unprompted. Around him, he felt Imhotep's lips stretch into something like a smile, he made a pleased noise, in the back of his throat, as if a purring cat. Harry writhed on the bed, helpless, as the noise Imhotep had made so encouragingly became his undoing.

Harry felt it, newly sensitive, as Imhotep carefully cleaned him with lips and tongue.

" _You will remember_." Imhotep told him, and even if it was not order or threat, Harry knew he would. Listless and groggy, he nodded. A finger touched his smooth cheek, brushed it attentively and gently – and Harry opened his eyes to see Imhotep regarding the wetness of Harry's tears on his fingertips.

" _Yes_ …" Harry said, agreeing – for something had to be said. Imhotep smiled, and Harry saw it for the first time that it was honest and pleased.

Harry had held a small hope that Imhotep was done with him, then, but apparently it was not to be. It was then, with Harry unsuspecting and relaxed, that Imhotep started on the _makeup_.

Harry found out later that they had some _very_ good reasons for using the eye shadow-like stuff and skin cream. Apparently, the kohl protected his eyes from the sun. Although Harry didn't see the reason _why_ his kohl had to be _grey_ on the eyebrows and eyelid, and _blue_ on the bottom – it made him look even _more_ feminine.

The skin cream, he learned rather uncomfortably when he asked, was a mix of alligator fat, and plant extracts- it was _supposed_ to smooth and soften skin. It served to make Harry _itchy_ …although, to be _fair_ , it was ' _improved'_ with the pungent scents of some flowers and herbs – so that could have been a part of the reason that it had irritated his skin.

It was also supposed to hide body odor – Harry thought it worked rather well, if you didn't mind the slick cream that made holding anything a potential hazard. Though, that too may have been why Harry remembered that he heard Imhotep whisper that he had soft hands, and must be very important where he came from – because soft handed people didn't need to do work. Harry said nothing, for what was he supposed to say? Insist he knew weapons better then some of his own people who had fought for him for years in a War that had not happened?

Harry was then dressed ( _finally_ ) in white linen, which was more then _slightly_ see-through; enough that he might as well have not been dressed at all. Harry didn't protest this though; because he reasoned that _some_ fabric between his body and Imhotep's eyes was better then none at all.

He was then ornamented in a necklace of colorful jeweled stones, gold bracelets and armbands, and an ivory ring with a gold beetle atop of it. Imhotep explained that it showed Seti's – and in turn, the rest of the royal family's approval of him. Harry was only careful enough to keep his fingers clasped loosely about his palm, so that Imhotep would not see the black stone beneath the skin there.

Then, as if to mock him, Imhotep put him in a wig of _human_ hair, straitened; which fell in a feminine wave to his shoulders. Then a cone of ox tallow scented with myrrh was placed atop that, and because Harry could now feel his lips and tongue; his body was beginning to tingle uncomfortably, and he made an effort to speak again trying not to think of what else he had let Imhotep do to him so short a time ago.

" _Why_?" Harry choked out, but Imhotep merely smirked at him.

" _It was perfectly harmless,_ _Harii, I assure you, and the effects of the potion are short-lived. Tonight there is to be entertainment followed by a banquet. The cone will melt, and instead of getting into your hair – will go onto the wig, face, and clothes. You would not want to embarrass Seti or Nefertiri, now would you_ _?"_ Imhotep then looked him over a final time, gave him sandals, and then he led Harry to where Seti, Anck-su-namun, and Nefertiri awaited them with the others of the household. Harry was careful to sit as far from Imhotep as he could. He felt that Imhotep saw this, and knew – and was more amused by his skittishness then insulted.

Harry had never been more uncomfortable and embarrassed in his life – a fact Imhotep still seemed to take great amusement in, standing beside Seti; watching Anck-su-namun and Nefertiri duel in cat-masks.

 _I guess I know where the term 'cat-fight' came from_ … Harry was more then slightly amused by this thought until Imhotep caught his eye.

Harry blushed- a fact most of these people had began to take great amusement in. For, because Harry was so much paler then those around him – his blushes were the most _noticeable_. Not entirely unwillingly, Harry remembered what had happened in the chamber after Seti and the others had left.

Harry made a point of watching Anck-su-namun and Nefertiri finish their duel – all the while remembering.


	3. Why Mehen Is A Jealous Lover

Black scales glittered in the depths of mist. Mist clung to the ship, as tightly as the huge serpent did. Mist was not the only thing, of course, but it was the main thing to see upon the surface of the Underworld. To see more, one must be dead – or a God. Certainly one, or the other, for there was only one God who was dead.

It was not often Mehen assumed this shape and body. That he did so now, when no obvious threat was present, worried at his companion-Gods. Mehen was not a cruel God, but he was one with a _purpose_. He protected them here. That he was distressed so much as this, to manifest his feelings into a physical presence, said more to the worrying of his mind then did his long silence among them. His huge serpentine body lay desolate, curled about the ship it protected and knew the strengths and weaknesses of like no other. Save one.

The traitor God, Set.

Once there had been two protectors, but that was long ago and the weight of the memory was still fresh within Mehen. They dare not utter his name within Mehen's hearing. Even now, with things settled, he did not know the whys or reasons of his once-partner and fellow protector, his companion for all the endless time the Boat of a Million Years had sailed. It was a reckoning of time mortals could not conceive.

To be betrayed in such a way had hurt them all, yes, in different ways; all of them remembered all the long years. Mehen had taken it worse of all. Still, he had not faltered in his duty to them, even with Set turned traitor. Some had worried, in the beginning, that Mehen would follow Set into the darkness of Apep. That he had not said much of his loyalty, of the depths of betrayal and hurt he still felt keenly.

Still, even in that turbulent and uncertain time, Mehen had not reverted to this body and shape without any pressing danger to them. Something, they knew, had happened when Mehen had gone wandering alone from the abandoned Boat of a Million Years. They had stopped for a time, as they always did within the Underworld. Mehen now suffered in silence, his great body, disturbingly still, encircled the unthreatened ship.

Anet stepped forward, her hips and legs swaying and moving with her sexuality openly expressed, daring to interfere with Mehen, whatever his mood. She had that right. Of all of them, to her he might answer; in that, he had never failed to do before. Of Anet's nature and origins, were foreign. What they knew of her was that for all her natural femininity and openly sensual lust, she was a fertile Goddess, a Mother of Gods, by her own right. It seemed almost duel natured, but was as sexual a creature she was she held within her a battle-fierceness, and having a great blood-lust of the hunt.

Some said that these two were bother and sister, Mehen and she; others mother and son, it was a fact - of Mehen's lineage, none knew or could say for sure. He had appeared beside Set one day, out of the depths of the Underworld, and had undertaken the working of protecting them as his purpose.

There were stronger Gods, and Goddesses who held more sway then he, but none of them had such a purpose that reflected directly upon them; if something stirred and meant them harm…would Mehen still protect them? It was a question that needed an answer, despite the patience the Gods held in reverence to each other. None of them were as loyal or fierce within the Underworld as Mehen. Anet touched his blackened scaled hide, his body cold to her touch.

" **What troubles you so, Mehen**?" Anet asked of him, kindly. There was such a long silence some thought Mehen had not heard – or would not answer her. This prospect that he was silent and deadened, worried some more then that he was in his serpent body. He had always Anet answered before.

" **I fear I am in love. Can you not tell, Sister? Is it an irony of arrogance; to think that I am too well controlled to let you sense it of the likes of I**?" Anet petted his hide gently, even as a wicked black night sky eye gleamed up at her. She did not flinch from him.

" **I did not guess that such of that would trouble the likes of you. You are not a fool to pine this way. Is this not welcoming to know? Do you find no comfort in knowing you are not alone? Surely you do not fear that any God or Goddess would scorn your love**?" Anet asked of him, sharpness in her voice, that no one could deny hearing. A few flinched or looked away in guilt as her eyes roved over them. There was a knowing in her eyes that few could deny knowing the meaning of her edge. If Mehen was rejected by any of them, her wrath would befall them. Mehen was her favored; it did not much matter if the tie was sister-brother or mother-son, or not one of family at all.

" **You felt like…alike Set, when I met him once. I never knew him, before, as you knew him**." The child-Goddess, Sopdet, spoke softly though it was not often she was shy of Mehen. Of all of them, it was she who was youngest. It was now through her constellation, that of Sirius, they sailed through the night sky of now. Perhaps that gave her confidence, to face Mehen in his danger, when others would turn aside of Mehen rather then be dealt a blow by him.

" **Does it frighten you? To know me this way, he and I were much alike**." Mehen asked of her, he did not say it as a taunt, as others may have when faced with one so young, yet so knowing. Her nature was that of an astral Goddess, a guardian and watcher of time. Sopdet knew this, her power, and answered him where she might have faltered in answering another God or Goddess. Anet smiled gently, encouraging, even as she lay upon Mehen freely and trustingly.

" **No. You do not frighten me. I worry for you, fear for you in this strange temper of yours. There is nothing wrong with you. No taint of Apep. Only of love. Yet you are so still and cold, as if a mortal near dying. You are not, are you**?" Sopdet widened her eyes in fear with this new possibility; she trembled in fright, even as Mehen laughed bitterly. Set, ally of Apep, had known ways to kill them; had killed his brother, Osiris, in this manner. Perhaps she had not watched Mehen in recent battle as closely as she ought to have? Had he sustained some wound that _could_ kill him?

" **He is not dying, Sopdet**." Nekhbet told her kindly, seeing her earnest fear for Mehen. Anet hid her lips, shaking her head. Sopdet had the feeling Anet was hiding her smile from her sight.

" **He only may wish he were**." Twin to Nekhbet, Uatchet spoke next, her voice conveying her humor and scorn entwined. Nekhbet wore the White Crown of Upper Egypt, her representation the vulture upon it, as was her right; she was more then mere Goddess, she was the land of Upper Egypt itself, protector of mother and child. She chose its ruler, and protected him fiercely in war and combat.

Uatchet did no less, wearing her own land's Red Crown her own symbol was of uraeus, a rising cobra, itself – as much as Nekhbet's vulture – was a personification of the duality between the Gods and their people that was the basis of ma'at. She was further the Goddess of heat and fire, though she did not hesitate in using the "cowardly" venom that was her nature.

" **I may as well be dying. It does me no good to know who it is that I love, when it is beyond my grasp to touch them**." His sorrow washed over them, and Anet, closest, cried out softly in pain. She touched her heart, as if she could ease the pain Mahen was in by doing so. Tears raised in her eyes, glinting as they fell silently down her cheeks.

" **How can you be so sure…?** " Anet asked of him, daring again to reach out and give comfort to him that he would deny the needing of. He looked a long moment to her, daring them to ask, to prod him into answering. He would not be manipulated, and had to be sure – in this way – that there was still trust between them.

" **Mortal. He is mortal**." His cry was keening, a moaning that echoed in their hearts. Mehen shivered then, full-bodied, tilting the Boat of a Million Years his fear obvious to them. It was not often that they thought that Mehen _could_ feel fear so keenly. He was reckless and furious within the Underworld, where even Gods must watch where they trod.

" **Oh Mehen…** " Anet murmured, pitying, even as she petted him, attempting to sooth him.

" **How can this be? Gods can not love mortals in this way. It is in our nature to care and protect them, yes. But…love? Such as that has never happened before among us. Love must be equal between Gods, and mortals…they burn, loving us, dying for our love.** " Nekhbet, protector of human mother and child, wet nurse of Pharaohs, was baffled and frightened as Mehen was at this revelation.

" **Mehen is gifted, to find love such as this love, mortal or no."** Anet told her sternly, as if a lecturer.

" **Cursed, more like**." Uatchet argued, pitying Mehen in knowing that his love of this mortal would kill it. What would become of Mehen then? Would he die, mourning the mortal who he had loved and had been loved by in turn? It seemed an immediate and fearful concern, losing one of their own to such a fate. Lose him they would, for Mehen was true with his whole self, if he loved, he loved completely and earnestly, full-hearted. He mourned and feared the death his mortal, as much as he could not help loving.

" **What do you know**?" Sopdet asked of him – for he surely knew more then he told, she was the first brave enough to speak to Mehen directly after feeling so keenly the depths of his wretched despair and longing for his love.

" **This mortal will be the Opener of Ways, as Ma'at decrees.** **Wepwawet. He who we have awaited, whom Anubis searches for…** " Mehen sounded amused by that; Anubis was the God of the dying, mortals were always dying and unknowingly preparing for it with Anubis to aid them. Anubis preferred that aspect of his nature, rather then ruling the already dead. He had stepped gladly down from his rule of the Underworld, when Osiris had died, and held then a claim upon the dead who had lived while he ruled them. Anubis held open the way to the Underworld for mortals, and while he could do so, it was not wholly within his nature; he felt weakened and wrong for what he did – and so looked for Wepwawet; he who was the Opener of Ways, a God thought not yet born, but known among them by Anubis' searching.

" **So this beloved mortal of Mehen, will become a God**." Anet said it, and they could tell she tasted the words with care upon her tongue, weighing the rightness and truth of them.

" **Yes, as is decreed by Ma'at, and was attempted by Bennu. He can not be made into a God; if he completes her task, he must find his own way into our ranks.** " His anger stirred then, they felt it keenly, his feeling that he had been betrayed by Ma'at and thus by the Gods themselves. It was dangerous for Mehen to let them know this when they had not suspected it.

If he turned against them, they had no doubt to where he would go; into the darkness of the Underworld, where Set would greet him as if a lost brother, and Apep would welcome him knowing the strength and fierceness of Mehen having been among his victims.

" **Ma'at blesses him**." Sopdet whispered to Mehen, softly, trying to be positive and reassuring. She did not like it that Mehen was so upset, even if she could not quite grasp why, she sought to sooth him.

" _ **If**_ **; if he completes her task**." Mehen hissed, his normally night-sky starred eyes blazing like a supernovae, mashing his growing fangs together; fangs that had ripped the flesh and poisoned Gods and Demons alike. Sopdet took only one step away from Mehen, but he saw it. He looked at her as if she had struck against him, dealing a wound from her blow that could not easily be healed.

" **The end result will be that same, Mehen;** _ **he will**_ _ **become**_ _ **a God**_ **. Ma'at had to test him, there are** _ **consequences**_ **if one of us is born, misplaced in the Living World, and you** _ **know**_ **this** …" Nekhbet rebutted, putting her hand on the child-Goddesses shoulder to put her at ease. It was clear that as much as Mehen did regret having let his anger get the better of him – and directed at Sopdet – Nekhbet still did not take lightly of his almost threat. Uatchet stirred, they glanced between each other, opposite twins, yes, but two agreeing halves of the same coin that was their land.

Mehen did not speak to them for a long time after.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

After the duel between Anck-su-namun, and Nefertiri, Harry found out that Anck-su-namun was to be Seti's Future-Wife, _and_ body-guard; Nefertiri was to be the protector of the Bracelet of the Scorpion King. Harry had only one look at it, and did not feel comforted that this task put Nefertiri in any less danger then what Anck-su-namun might face.

A banquet was held, as Imhotep had told him it would be, Anck-su-namun sat on one side of Seti –and Nefertiri, on his other side. After the announcement of Harry's stay at the palace, as a foreign guest, they ate. Harry only ate what he recognized; which was beef, and what he thought had obviously been a fowl of some sort.

This celebration, from the start, promised to last a long time, and it wasn't very long before some were led stumbling away – drunk. Seti announced he would go on a chariot ride, and there were many murmurs of approval. His guards followed him in his leaving.

When Seti left, it was near _noon_. Anck-su-namun had snuck away, giving Harry a look, as left, as though she _knew_ what Imhotep had done to him, and blamed Harry. It left a cold feeling in his gut. Was it so obvious what Imhotep had done to him? It felt something like his scar, marking him, standing out even among the exotic throng strangers whose names he could barely pronounce and only hoped that whatever gave his tongue the ability to speak to them did not falter in those sounds.

" _Harii, I am going to go to my chambers now – do not worry, Imhotep will take care of you. Just tell him if you require anything_ …" Nefertiri told him softly as though not to startle him, her hand laid warm against the skin of his shoulder. Harry found it quite hard to focus on anything just then. Nonetheless, Harry after blinking a few times at her. he nodded slowly in understanding.

Nefertiri and Imhotep spoke in hushed, rapid whispers, Harry knew –somehow – that he should have been paying attention to what was going on, but he couldn't bring himself to care. With the warmth of, whatever it was he had drunk – or been drugged with, seeping into his mind – numbing him pleasantly, he found himself willing to give Imhotep a second chance. After all, Nefertiri and her father seemed to trust him.

Perhaps what had happened after they had left them alone earlier that day had merely been a misunderstanding? His nose scrunched up then; perhaps _that_ was 'normal'? Harry did not remember any papers on such behavior, but perhaps there wouldn't be.

Sometime later (he didn't know how much time had passed, and it didn't seem to matter) Harry had worked it out that Nefertiri _had_ left, and Imhotep had taken her place - sitting beside Harry, watching him. As Harry stared blankly into Imhotep's dark eyes, Harry felt himself grow somewhat tired, as those reminded him of the night sky – of sleep, rest. Mehen.

Harry's heart clenched painfully in his chest, though he did not know, or understand, the reason he was so acutely affected. He whimpered softly, pained, not wanting to cause a scene. Not wanting to admit how much it hurt, thinking of the God who had stolen his kiss. When Harry dared to look up at Imhotep, he saw _something_ in his eyes, something that passed before Harry could understand it. Perhaps it had been an understanding sympathy, maybe worry, or pity. Or even, Harry wondered with bemusement at himself, lust.

Whatever it had been, was real and, most importantly, was directed toward _Harry_. Showing, just for once in Harry's life, someone who was a stranger; who could use him (though he did not think Imhotep would do just that, the connection – the meaning – whatever it was between them ran somehow deeper and realer then lust). Imhotepm ade it obvious from the start that he felt something toward Harry other then the familiar duel hate or hero-worship. Even if it was only lust Imhotep felt toward him...he was so _tired_ of being alone in every way that counted, and if Imhotep was willing as he proved to be last time - his heart beating rapidly at his own daring, Harry laid his head on Imhotep's shoulder.

It was warm, a musky sort of warmth, from sun and sand that enchanted Harry, and though the muscles beneath the skin shifted with tension – Harry could not resist nuzzling his cheek against Imhotep's bare shoulder.

" _Harii…would you like to go to the chambers granted to you_?" Imhotep's voice seemed to be strained, though soft enough that Harry did not cringe from the volume of it – he found himself particularly sensitive to his senses. _Must be the drug-drink_ , Harry thought absently, although he could not complain – the warmth and texture of Imhotep's skin against him made Harry feel a needy pleasure heat between his thighs.

" _Do you mean - do I want to go to bed with you_?" Harry asked in turn, finding Imhotep's phrasing difficult to unravel. His voice is soft and questioning, reminding Harry that he sounds far too much like a child, rather then the teenager, near adult, that he is.

" _Yes, Harii. That is what I meant_ …" Imhotep allowed, smiling slightly despite that he was supposed to, here, play the part of High Priest – and priests of any sort did not smile while boys half their own age cuddled them in the middle of a dinner party. No matter that Harry felt… _right_ , pressed against him – even if it was in a drunken stupor (or, more sinister – drugged - as Nefertiri had suggested). Imhotep pressed Harry against him welcomingly, it did not matter that Harry was drugged – or drunk – this was the most open Imhotep had witnessed the boy being. It was soothing, and stirred up feelings of protecting Harry from whoever had drugged him so easily. Imhotep had his suspicions, but he would not act until he knew Harry was safely tucked away and out of sight, then Imhotep would find the one who dared do this.

" _I…I don't want to leave you alone_." Harry remembered saying softly, his voice very rough as he gazed at the others with hooded eyes. They tried their best to pretend they did not see them, but Harry saw the loathing for Imhotep (and perhaps himself?) in their eyes. Strange, that he had not noticed it before.

" _Come. Let us get you to your rooms, you are not fit to tie your own shoes, let alone dine among…jackals_." The last word was softly hissed, as Imhotep – seeing and realizing why Harry had said what he had – wrapped a possessive arm around him and hauled him up from the ground. Harry half leaned on him – not aware of it, he was clingy as they walked, forcing Imhotep to pause every once in a while so that Harry would regain his balance.

" _I don't want to be alone_ …" The confession of the words was random – but not necessarily, as Imhotep knew well from experience, untrue.

" _I will sit with you until you fall asleep then_." At Imhotep's words – Harry looked up at him, green eyes wide and surprised, though frankly dauntingly honest.

" _Really_...?" Green eyes pleaded with him to whisper, to touch – to seduce. Hastily – before he could be tempted, Imhotep looked elsewhere. He found himself looking ahead. They had stopped abruptly from the entrance that led to Harry's chambers – merely a few footsteps away. Imhotep could not find it within himself to be frustrated, not with Harry looking up at him as if Imhotep held so much of Harry – as if, if he hinted the wrong thing, Harry might shatter.

That was something Imhotep was not used to – no one trusted him, he was the physical embodiment of Osiris; the Dead God, who ruled the Underworld. Imhotep had willing followed that God all his life – to do that tainted ….twisted a person. Imhotep had once thought, merely a day ago, that he was surely evil for loving the wife-to-be of the Pharaoh, of plotting with her to overthrow him, so they might have a chance of being together.

Harry was not evil; that was plain enough from a glimpse of those bold green eyes. How could Harry put so much trust in him, when merely that morning Imhotep had lusted after him? Had touched and shaved him, had indulged in teasing him – how could Harry still – _somehow_ \- trust him on this level? Even if it were only the drugged-drink, Harry should be wary of him. Yet, he was not. He was open, friendly…

Imhotep found himself looking back at Harry – daring to meet his eyes as he answered – and with a heavy heart, spoke.

" _Truly_ …" Imhotep answered softly, sure that he would not; if given a choice between reason and carnal instinct, abuse such blind faith ever again.

Harry, caught off balance by looking up at Imhotep and trying to walk onward after receiving his answer - stumbled badly then. Imhotep, before he could think to do otherwise, reached out for the youth and caught him, holding him against him for a few precious moments before he found, frustratingly, that could not hold his own weight and they tumbled together against the stone wall in a tangle of limbs.

Imhotep found his back pressed to the hard stone wall – and in his arms, Harry lay sprawled against him. Looking down at him, Imhotep could not help but notice how petite the youth was compared to his own build.

 _Such a delicate creature_ , Imhotep mused as Harry raised his head to look him awkwardly in the eye – then, flushed prettily – chose to instead stare at Imhotep's collarbone.

" _Thank you_." Harry whispered breathlessly against Imhotep's neck, unknowingly sending pleasant tingling shivers along his skin –Harry only knew he _had_ tensed, and Harry – noticing this, frowning in a disapproving sort of way.

 _I want to smell him_. Harry realized, the desire humming through him like a arrow, shakily he inhaled – drawn in close by the heat crawling in a place lower then his navel, he bent till his lips ghosted Imhotep's neck. A wet tongue lapped at the salty sweat that sitting in the evening heat had created.

Imhotep's body jerked in his surprise, but he did not pull away – merely staring down at Harry in a horrified sort of way - his eyes having widening at the touch of the wet heat against his skin. As he watched, stunned – the boy began kissing from neck to jaw – with every breath and touch of lips or tongue, Imhotep found his groin hardening, becoming so needy it was nearly too painful to bare.

Soft and gentle, Harry's lips touched his own – pressing, earnest – and very eager.

" _Harii_ …" Imhotep did not know, exactly, what he would have said to deter the younger man, and he did not get a chance to consider it further. Harry could be very determined when there was something he wanted – right then, what he wanted to do was taste Imhotep – so he did. The wet heat licked at Imhotep's lips playfully before pushing in – unlike the kiss, he was not "soft or gentle" – he was demanding and possessive.

Control was something Harry was not very good at – and when Imhotep raised his hands to pull off the wig, and tangle his fingers into Harry's dark-as-night hair – he didn't want it.

"… _Please_ …?" Harry begged shamelessly, his lips brushing the shell of Imhotep's ear as he spoke, and feeling the bulge against his thigh – Imhotep knew exactly what Harry was asking for.

One of his hands cradled Harry's head against his pounding heart, the other dared to touch the skin of Harry's thighs just beneath the hem of his loincloth. Harry gave an eager little moan – soft and needy, arching against Imhotep's hip.

" _As you wish_ …" Imhotep purred softly into Harry's dark hair, holding the youth to him. He felt the boy whimper as his hand that intimately touched his bare thigh went higher, cupping and massaging his rear.

Harry made soft whimpering moans. Rubbing himself against Imhotep, every inch of his length touching Imhotep in some way as he pressed against Imhotep's thigh; where his groin was _throbbed_ against the heat of the priest's skin. Over his own groin, where both moaned and panted for each other all the more heated. Against the flat of Imhotep's lower stomach - which made Harry arch, panting, and begin to thrust against Imhotep all over again.

Imhotep held Harry to him by his hair (not that he thought Harry would want to be "escaping" very soon) pressing their bodies together as he held him. When Imhotep's fingers pressed teasingly against the parting of the twin globes – Harry's breath caught in his throat – his eyes flicking up to meet Imhotep's own.

There was fear – need, want - and pleading that passed between one breath and the next, before Harry clung to him – his nails digging painfully into Imhotep's shoulders – drawing blood from the skin as he was forced to bare Harry's weight. Harry's legs and thighs wrapped around Imhotep then; anchoring him against his flesh, and entrapping Imhotep against the stone.

Imhotep found he had watched Harry intently as he touched him – teased him – but watching Harry was like hearing him. Both drew out Imhotep's desire – as Harry kindled it like a flame.

Imhotep's fingers abruptly made contact with Harry's entrance, pressed against it – made Harry moan and move wantonly against him. Trusting suddenly in Harry's ability to cling to him – and in gravity to hold them up right against the stone Imhotep was trapped against – both Imhotep's hands met Harry's thighs.

Carefully, Imhotep lifted him so that the head of Imhotep's cock pressed against his entrance – the pre cum and gentle throbbing of Imhotep's length against his most intimate place served to relaxed and prepare Harry far better then any stretching Imhotep could have done.

Mostly, though, it made him beg to feel all of Imhotep finally _move_ inside him.

So that's just what Imhotep did – listening with delight as Harry groaned (nails digging in deeper, teeth sinking into his throat to taste skin and blood if he so dared to draw it) arching (pressing his length upward along Imhotep's stomach as he did so) succeeding in pushing himself off Imhotep only to carefully be let slid down again.

Harry was a teenager – as Imhotep well knew, and teenagers did not last forever – the constant touch of skin on skin, and the feel of Imhotep in him – moving – and the rush of pleasure caused by the pressure against the tiny bundle of nerves deep within him.

Not to mention the drugs that heightened all of this, left it completely understandable that with a weak cry and a shiver that trembled though his small frame, Harry came – warm liquid suddenly against Imhotep's bare stomach. Hearing him and feeling him react to his orgasm, left Imhotep gasping as he held Harry tightly to him and came within his lover.

After he could breathe normally again, he lifted the now dozing teenager, carrying him bridal style the last few steps to Harry's chambers. With care and a certain amount of kindness that could not be forced or faked he laid the boy down ,and covered him with a thick blanket – for he knew the desert may be unbearably hot in the day, it was chill in the night.

The moment he stepped into the hall, he knew he was not alone.

A shadow with the image of a God he knew well; an enemy of Osiris, emerged from the darkness; Imhotep only knew a moment of fear before blazing eyes burned molten silver into Imhotep, lips pulled back from crocodile sharp teeth.

" _ **Forget**_." Imhotep blinked and in a daze walked away to meet his fate; eerie star-like eyes gazed at Harry – for a moment, they softened – then, with purpose the God followed Imhotep, leading him back to the party; where his golden skinned slave priests awaited him.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Nefertiri found Harry easily, where she had suspected Imhotep would take him. It filled her with a dread, seeing Harry tucked into the bed, and Imhotep no where in sight. Perhaps she had, after all, misjudged Imhotep and how he felt for Harry. She thought it was love, and that he and Anck-su-namun would part company.

Harry being here only meant that she had been tricked into letting Imhotep get what he wanted – and no more. She was a fool, guilt ate at her, even as she became blurry eyed. Harry had to know. Had to realize he had been used. He had to understand, because it would be too cruel to let him come to know in other – slower – ways. He would have to see what she had seen, and know it for the truth.

She touched his shoulder, shaking him only a little and calling his name.

" _Nefertiri…what is it? Where is Imhotep_?" Harry asked, blurry eyed but seeing plainly her pain and sorrow. He frowned, trying to think and flushing as he remembered. It trickled gently and soothing into his mind as if a summer rain; he could not find it within himself to regret it.

" _I think I know. Harii, you must come with me_." Her eyes begging him, Harry couldn't find within himself a reason to disagree. There was fear in her, and he wanted to ease it. Even if it meant leaving the warm bed and pleasant after-feelings of the sex he'd only recently enjoyed.

" _Alright._ " Harry allowed softly in agreement, visibly the tension within Nefertiri eased. Without any more argument, he followed hoping the smell of sex was not too obvious to her. The party died down even more, hardly and one lingered between the open gathering terrace and her chambers; they went to the balcony, so to speak – well, Harry was _considering_ interrogating her – that was, before he caught sight of Imhotep and Anck-su-namun - kissing, locked in a heated embrace. Imhotep was touching her, and Harry felt a sickening jolt, realizing that the way Imhotep touched her had been the same gentle caresses he'd soothed Harry with.

Nefertiri, seeing this from her balcony, did not seem surprised. Her eyes narrowed, but she had obviously known – or suspected – that this was likely to happen; and had wanted Harry to witness it, so her father could no blow off her idle palace 'gossip'. Maybe. It hurt him, knowing and seeing this and he was not at his most trusting.

" _This, Harii, is what I have brought you here to witness. I have tried to warn my father, but he sees me as a child still. Perhaps, I hope, he will take your word for it_." Harry, however, saw a jackal headed man leaning peacefully against the wall in the chamber - waiting, seeing that Harry saw him, he nodded to him with a jaunty wave; as if glad to meet Harry. No one else was taking notice of him. Nefertiri certainly was not. Still, the man – no, perhaps a God? (and weren't they all just popping out of the wood-work now) – _was there_.

And though Harry could not read the expressions of jackals well – he did know canines. The "mask" Harry realized, wasn't a mask at all but the God's own features. He turned then back to the embraced lovers, sneering at Imhotep and Anck-su-namun- he had a fiercely dark, almost a look black joy, in his eyes – and Harry knew _something_ would happen which would change Nefertiri's plans. Lips curled from his teeth in eager anticipation.

Only then did Harry realize who this God waiting for. Seti strode into the chamber containing the two; Imhotep hid away, and Harry had a sick feeling he knew what would befall the man. Harry, standing silently with Nefertiri watched, stunned and struck speechless, as Imhotep killed Seti with his own sword.

Nefertiri cried out for her father's sacred body-guards; even as Harry watched as jackal-headed God pulled Seti's soul from his body…and _waited_. Did not move on, but waited. Perhaps that was most telling of all.

The warrior-guards went into the room; saw the ruler of Egypt, dead at the feet of Anck-su-namun; then she announced the obvious, and killed herself – Imhotep already fleeing into the night – long gone.

Harry found himself holding Nefertiri, even as she cried; Harry knew her to be the newly made leader of her people.

**Author's Note:**

> Duat is the Underworld, and what Bennu (aka the phoenix Fawkes) was trying to do was make Harry a God as a "Gift/Curse" for saying his Name. Alas, something went wrong in the process of burning Harry's mortality away.
> 
> Mehen is a real Egyptian God, the serpent that wraps itself around the The Boat of a Million Years, and protects it from the likes of Apep/Apophis while going through the the nightly journey of the Underworld (more about that later, if you don't look it up for yourself); hence with the "three day eclipse" they were losing big time while the Founders were around, so Bennu's Name/Power was stolen without them looking for Bennu immediately after. You'll find out what I've done to them, no fear. Timelines? What is time?
> 
> Ma'at is the Goddess of Order/Justice/Law/Truth; Pharaoh's have been known to have called themselves the "Beloved of Ma'at", because this is a Goddess even the Gods had to heed to and blessed, in the Living World or the Underworld.
> 
> I'll try to keep the Gods and Goddess under a certain number and their personalities and characteristics will be distinct of those I've previously introduced; this will mostly about the "lesser" known Gods; so don't be surprised if someone pops in who you have no idea of "whose that?", and, yes, I'll explain as I get there. There will be differences between the forms of the Gods as we know them, and as Harry knows them, their names I'll try to stay true to, but they've been currupted for some thousand years before I came around; and their forms will differ as I refuse to put the head of a wasp with body of a hippopotamus together (i.e. Ahti). Uh-uh. No, simply, no!
> 
> I'll also try to stay as true to historical facts as possible, about how these people lived and died, however with the reasoning that this is fan-fiction, so, in other words, please do not announce to the class that Imhotep had boy love for orphans. Or Mehen was pretty; no, that's just me and my glee of half serpent God people. In other words, this story is mine, don't trust it, go do your own research into Egypt.
> 
> On that note, the "games" of Egypt as we know them were played by priests and pharaohs, not the common people, because the games were believed to be a mortal eye-view window to the happenings of the Gods. If you screwed up, the Gods suffered, i.e. you suffer too.


End file.
